


i wanna end me.

by wombat713writes



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Whump, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, bad!JT, gil is awesome, gil is malcolm's father, just stressed and drunk, not JT friendly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21539233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombat713writes/pseuds/wombat713writes
Summary: The gang's at a bar and Gil says something that he shouldn't have... Malcolm takes it the wrong way and runs away before Gil can correct him.
Comments: 112
Kudos: 205





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW: suicidal thoughts and/or actions
> 
> So... my first Prodigal Son fic! I hope you all like it. It was sort of an idea that hit me at 3 am... also I'm a sucker for any Malcolm Bright whump. I want to make it clear before you read this that I DON'T hate JT, I just needed him to act this way for the fic. I think that's it..
> 
> Enjoy! :)
> 
> UPDATE: I'm so sorry to everyone who got invested in this and were waiting for another chapter. I can't even remember why I stopped writing, but it's been over a year, and I'm not really as into Prodigal Son as when I wrote this. I'm probably not going to write the final comfort chapter, but just imagine apologies and guilt and Malcolm being told plainly that he *is* appreciated by all those he thinks of as family. I appreciate all your lovely comments, thank you for reading, and once again, sorry.

I wanna end me.

It’s a scary thought the first time it crosses your mind. A little black dot in your hazy grey mind. Or perhaps you have a clear white mind, like those girls who smile with full teeth and laugh their pretty little tinkly laughs, throwing their heads back and tossing their blonde curls over a shoulder. In my experience, when people have those clear white minds, clean and neatly and boxed up and all in order, a little black dot can get out of hand very quickly. It’s like dripping ink into a puddle of white paint; the ink spreads out in little spirals that have a toxic beauty and quickly infect the whole puddle, brushing the edges and gripping them with spindly fingers.

But my mind has been dark, tangled grey for a long time. I can’t really remember a time when my mind was clear. It’s always been a mess, and though it bothers me a little- ok, a lot- it’s always been something I’ve been able to deal with. Well, it depends on who you ask. Still, I’ve never been quite here before. Everything is around me is far too loud, the sun too bright, my watch ticking with giant thumps that threaten to rip my eardrums apart, and even Sunshine’s twittering and pecking in the next room is grating. I’m sitting on my bed- nowhere no near sleeping, and I doubt I’ll get there tonight- thinking. The week had been hard, one thing piling on top of another. First the case, then a fight with one of the beat cops over something- I’m not even really certain of what it was about- and then Gil.

It’s not that I blamed him, not at all. It had been a hard week for all of us, and if the stress of the case was keeping me up at night it was probably rubbing him thin as well. The case was finally solved, and we were celebrating at a bar- Taffy’s. An odd name for a bar, I recall Dani saying. She had laughed, saying it reminded her of the candy. We had sat at a table away from the center of activity, tucked away between the bathrooms and a pool table, because there was a group of very drunk young people playing some game with shots, and every time one of them lost and had to take a shot, they would all scream. So, we sat in the corner.

We were talking about… something. I can’t remember. Between the drinks- there were two of them, beers- and the… fight, most of the evening is a blur. Two beers shouldn’t take a grown man out, but it was falling on an empty stomach; I hadn’t slept well for a week, and I honestly can’t remember my last meal that wasn’t coffee or tea. Dani had not drunk very much at all, but Gil had had more than me, and JT was completely wiped.

Somehow along the way through on-the-case stories and bad jokes told almost exclusively by Gil (although I did contribute one or two ones myself, laced with dark humor), someone brought up kids.

Dani laughed off the idea. “Kids for a woman mean quitting, and I can’t do that. It’s easier for men, but I’d have to stop working for however long it took to get the child to daycare age. I’ve worked far too hard to get here to just turn over my badge to be a housewife.”

I hummed appreciation.

JT said that he might be up for kids, someday, in the far, far future, if he found the right girl, but he wasn’t looking for them right now. I half expected them to just skip me- I mean, what reasonable person could think of me as parent material? But JT asked me, finishing his drink with a gulp and flagging a waitress for another.

“Kids? I’m not home nearly enough for a dog, let alone another fully functioning person. Or not so fully functioning,” I scoffed.

Dani snickered, “Can you imagine?”.

She was joking, I reminded myself, playing off what I had just said, but it still hurt a little bit. Not that I’d let anyone know.

I didn’t add this, but the second, darker thought that crossed my mind was that with my family record, I wasn’t really destined to be a good father. Of course, my dad was a serial killer, probably top five worst parents ever- I mean, look at how I turned out- and my mom wasn’t a shining star either. She wasn’t abusive exactly, but she certainly got rougher that would be considered healthy for a child. I always kept her away from Ainsley when she was really drunk, but I had been on the receiving end of her drug-induced breakdowns more than a few times. Sometimes it would be little fingernail rings around my wrist and a bruise from where her hand had gripped a bit too hard, and sometimes it would be a blotchy red patch where her bejeweled hand connected with my cheek.

Still, it wasn’t that little memory that threw me off. It was what happened next. I was quiet, sipping on my beer to give myself an excuse to not talk, and JT turned to Gil.

“What about you? Ever think about kids?” I darted my eyes to JT. He must have been much drunker than I thought to be saying that. Everyone knows that Gil loved her wife, and that he was devastated when she passed. It was sort of forbidden territory. I could see by the clench in Gil’s jaw that he didn’t want to talk about it. Still, JT forged ahead, intoxicated and oblivious, “Or wish you had some.”

Gil stared at him for a moment more, then, assessing him as too drunk to be meaning the questions as anything other than oblivious inquiries, he dropped his eyes and replied, “Yeah, sure.”

Dani and I stayed quiet, not wanting to hurt him. JT prompted him, “Yeah?”.

Gil was looking directly down into his drink now, “Yeah. I guess I always kind of wanted a child, or children, with Jackie, but then she got sick…

“Oh,” JT had finally caught on. He was silent for a couple of seconds, and then he smiled encouragingly, “Well, you had Bright! He must have kept you busy.”

He laughed. No one else did. I half expected Gil to come back with some sharp retort, or even just defend me. I half expected myself to pile on and try to ease the situation with some self-deprecation. But instead Gil just murmurs, quietly, “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was chapter one! I hope you liked it! Also- I promise it gets more whumpy, starting next chapter :) . If you want to ask me questions, feel free to leave them in the comments below or ask me on tumblr at emomulberrygirl. If you liked the fic or have constructive criticism, please comment!
> 
> Reads make me smile, Kudos make me jump up and down and Comments knock me to the ground. Seriously. I pass out.
> 
> (it's a good thing. comment :)


	2. Chapter 2

Suddenly everything gets quiet. The air drains and I focus in on Gil. My stomach tightens and I feel nauseous. I know dealing with me then- dealing with me now- isn’t easy. I’m a handful at best, a nightmare to any sane person, really. But hearing him acknowledge it out loud was different.

The silence at our table is so loud. My cheeks flush. Eventually Dani shifts uncomfortably in her chair, and Gil looks up with a jolt, as if startled. He meets my eyes and quickly stutters out, “Bright, I didn’t- you know I didn’t mean-

I cut him off, shrugging off his comment, pretending not to care, “Don’t worry about it.”

“I mean, I struggled sometimes with you- but-

"Gil, really, don't worry about it," I looked up and forced a smile. He met my eyes and gave me a thin smile of his own, though I knew he could tell just how phony my smile was. I glanced away from his searching eyes added, "I mean, I know I must have been quite the burden." I laughed bitterly, trying fruitlessly to lessen the bite of my words. I hadn't meant for them to come out like that, so accusatory.

"You weren't a burden, you were just... difficult.

"Difficult." My throat betrayed me and closed up. The one word was the only thing that could force it's way out. He wasn't being cruel, I reminded myself, you're just blowing it all out of proportion, like usual. I blinked hard and looked back at Gil.

"Yeah," Gil looked up at me and fumbled, rushing to add, "Look, kid, I don't blame you. I mean, with your father, you were bound to have some... issues."

“Issues, huh?” I laughed bitterly, the light flush in my cheeks burning brighter.

“No, just that with everything that happened to you, your father…” He trailed off and I bit the inside of my cheek.

I pulled my hands off the table and clenched them into fists so Gil couldn’t see them shaking. But by the way he looked down and then back up with pity, I knew he knew what I was doing anyways. He opened his mouth to say something else but I stood up, chair scraping the floor.

“Ok.”

“Hey-

“I got it. Bad son.” I smiled wryly and buttoned my jacket, forcing my trembling fingers to cooperate.

“No- Malcolm-

I turned and walked out. I know it wasn’t fair, but I don’t think I could have stayed at that table facing Gil without crying, and that was something I definitely didn’t want to do. They already all though I was overreacting. I probably was.

I wasn’t thinking, and somehow, I found myself walking out through the backdoor instead of the front door, the way we came in. I pushed open the door, the flickering red EXIT sign fizzling at the disturbance, and I half-slipped down the steps, my feet moving of their own accord, carrying me to the dumpster. I leaned against it for a second or two, and then my stomach rolled, and I grabbed the top of the dumpster and bent over, throwing up. My stomach didn’t have much to give up, but what it could, it did. Two beers, and once it got past that, just bile. I threw up until I was just hacking and coughing dryly at the ground.

Eventually I stopped gagging on my own spit, and I slowly righted myself and slumped against the brick wall. I closed my eyes and tried to breath slowly.

'Gil hates you'- A voice whispered from my right, and immediately my eyes were wide open again. I whipped around, but saw nothing save shadows.

'He wishes it was someone else who got the call'- This time it was from my left. I twisted and reeled backwards, but my back collided with the dumpster, and in front of me was just an empty alley.

I took a deep breath and held it, choking down a sob. I guess I hadn’t slept as recently as I thought if I was hearing things. Not that they weren’t true. I didn't want to believe them, but…

My thoughts are broken up as the door I exited swung open half-way. It was Dani and JT.

“Let me talk to him.”

“No, trust me, it’s better if I do it. Man, on man.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dani, just- I got it. Go back to Gil. He’s probably shaken up right now too.”

I winced, a flash of guilt piercing my gut. There was a pause, and then Dani let out a resigned sigh, “Fine. Just, be… gentle, ok?”.

My stomach twisted again. Anger and guilt battled to win me over. He shouldn’t have to be gentle with me, she shouldn’t have to tell him to be gentle. Half of me burned that they think I might go off if they something wrong- what, do they think I’m like my father? - but the other half of me is more reasonable, and it shrivels at the thought of Dani caring enough about me to warn JT to be gentle. I don’t deserve that.

JT responds quietly, so quietly I almost don’t hear it, “Yeah, I’ll be gentle.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Fine. I vow to be composed, at least while I’m here. “Go on,” he adds, and she finally goes back to Gil. JT steps outside fully, letting the kitchen door swing closed behind him as he jogs down the cement steps and walks over to where I stand leaning against the brick wall.

I slowly raise my eyes to face him, taking in his stiff stance and set jaw. So, he’s not going to be gentle after all.

“What the hell, man?”

I looked at him for a second more, deciding if I should argue back or just back down, but the guilt that was gradually growing in my stomach won over and I replied, “I’m sorry. I probably overreacted. I know he didn’t-

“Oh, he did,” JT cut me off, “Man, can you imagine raising you? I mean, no offensive, but it must have been horrible. He’s just too polite and controlled to say it usually.”

“I-

“But you shouldn’t have snapped back at him like that. He had every right to say that, and you need to… you need to go cool off and do whatever it is you do at night instead of sleep.”

That can’t be true. Gil can’t really have hated raising me. “He didn’t… I tried to be good for him,” I protest softly.

JT’s eyes turn slightly pitying, but they are still blurred by alcohol. “Look at yourself. Just living near you is like living near a time bomb. Sure, the bomb’s gonna be the thing that is blown up the most, but if it goes off, everyone nearby is gonna get hurt.”

He paused and I swallowed, hard. I’m a bomb. A ticking time bomb, just waiting to hurt everyone near me. They would be better off without me. The only way to stop everyone form getting hurt, when they’re living around a bomb, is to disable the bomb. Make sure it stops working, permanently. Something in my brain clicks, locking into place onto the idea, and suddenly it’s all I can think about.

“Ok, yeah,” I whisper.

“Yeah?” JT prods, “You hurt Gil in there. Just… take some time off, ok?”

“Ok.” I’m going to take the rest of time off. I won’t come back and I can never hurt Gil again.

Ok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo... this chapter had a bit more whump than the last one. The next chapter will be just Malcolm... kind of trapped in his head. I haven't written the next one yet so it might take longer to upload than this one did.
> 
> Tell me what you think about the conflict! I'm kind of worried I made Gil too bad with his words, or Malcolm react to suddenly... I think some of it is explained by the alcohol and the sleep deprivation (on Malcolm's part) and of course the building stress from the case all week, but idk... if you have ideas you can tell me in the comments.
> 
> Like last time, if you want to ask questions, you can ask them below or on tumblr at emomulberrygirl. If you liked the fic or have constructive criticism, please comment!
> 
> Reads make me smile, Kudos make me jump up and down and Comments knock me to the ground.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i know it's mentioned in the tags, but SUICIDE TRIGGER WARNING!  
> There *is* a suicide attempt in this chapter, and fairly graphically described. This chapter also deals with the thoughts surrounding a suicide attempt. I'm drawing from my own experience with suicidal ideation, self harm, etc. here, but if anyone thinks it's weirdly represented here, just message me. I'm limited by my skill which is... smol, so there's that.
> 
> Also I feel like I should add that Gil and JT are GOOD in the tv show (I love Gil and Malcolm's relationship) they're just oblivious in this fic so far.
> 
> Sorry it took so long to write this one, and without further ado, enjoy! :)

The cab ride back to my place was silent. I gave the cabbie his money up front and he had the common sense not to talk. My eyes burned with unshed tears, and I stared firmly out the window. I will not cry. I will not cry.

At least not until I get back to my apartment.

When the car pulled up to the curb, I tipped the taxi well and unlocked my door, entering my apartment and walking up the steps silently. I toe off my shoes and drape my coat and suit jacket on the marble counter. I made my way over to my sink, filled a glass of water, didn’t drink it. I couldn’t make myself swallow it, even to ease the clinging taste of bile coating my throat. I sat down slowly on one of the stools.

I ran a shaky hand through my hair, at first just to occupy my hand, but then I felt the tremors against my skull, and I dropped my hand again. Why couldn’t I stop it from shaking? A physical manifestation of my anxiety, and I couldn’t control it. I clenched my hand into a fist and stuffed it in my pocket. Weak.

I remember Gil telling me it was a good thing that I was so disturbed with everything that happened, with my father, when I was younger. He had been trying to comfort me after I had woken up from a nightmare that had gripped me when I had passed out from pure exhaustion on one of his stakeouts. I remember when he told me that I was confused, even a little bit hurt, and I asked why. He laughed, and told me that no one wished I could be happy and calm more than him, but given my childhood, it would be concerning if I was perfectly well adjusted, and unconcerned by what my father did. He said that my night terrors, and my anxiety, were signs that I had empathy, and that I wasn’t like my father.

Now I worry about what Gil had really meant; no one wished I could be happy and calm more than him; was he just concerned for me, or did part of him wish I could get out of his hair, shut up and stop being a nuisance that he had to look after, some kind of moral obligation because I saved him. Gil loves to say that- that I saved him- but the reality is that he saved me. He saved me when he believed me, and he saved me every day after that when he was there, the father that my father should have been, holding me when tremors racked my body after nightmares or anxiety attacks, and clapping me on my shoulder when I got a good grade on a test.

Fuck. Well, he’d be rid of me soon. Death. I force myself to think the word and suddenly it gets more real. A heavy black stain in my mind. Maybe it’s too far, I could just leave, head to Chicago, or LA, or some place in the country where no one actually lives; they wouldn’t have to deal with me anymore, but they wouldn’t have the guilt of my death.

I eye Sunshine across the room and the little parakeet chirps quietly, shifting lazily on the perch. What would happen to Sunshine if I died. No way my mother would keep her… I’d have to get Gil to. But the reason for all of this is to be less of a burden. Maybe I’d have to get a shelter to take her in and find her a family from there.

I take a shaky breath; I’ll write up a note detailing who gets what, and then I’ll go from there. I can do this. I take a sip of the water, forcing it down, but when I close my throat to swallow it sends a blinding flash of pain through my head and I gasp, dropping the glass to the floor. It hits hard and shatters, the sound of glass breaking ripping through my ears and sending my mind into spirals.

I can’t piece thoughts together. I need to calm the thoughts in my head. I stand abruptly, needing to move, but a sharp pain lances through my feet. I let out a cry as the glass digs into my bare feet. I pitch forward, catching myself on my hands and pulling myself away from the spilled water and shattered glass. I scoot numbly backwards and watch my blood mix with the clear water, unfurling across my floor.

I stare at the blood and the water and the broken glass, not really processing it, just staring. Some twisted part of my mind whispers that it’s beautiful. I reach down and slowly pull a piece of glass from my foot. It tugs on my skin, and veins buried below, and I wince. Maybe I should just leave the glass in my feet. What’s the point, now?

Suddenly I hear someone laughing, ‘Really, what is the point?’

I look up quickly, and find myself staring at the smiling, deceitful face of Martin Whitly. He sits cross-legged on my bed, and he looks oddly childlike. I whimper and try to claw my way backwards.

“He isn’t real,” I whisper to myself, “It’s not real, he’s still locked up.”

I shut my eyes against his jarring smile, but as soon as I close them screams fill the air, shrill and low and loud and strangled. The sounds of torture. I open my eyes again, gasping.

‘Don’t close your eyes, dear boy. You can’t ignore me, what I did. What you did,’ Martin smiles, before adding, ‘What you did to Gil, and to everyone you ever tried to be friends with.’

“Shut up. You’re not even real, you’re just… a figment of my imagination, my own guilty self-torture.”

He grins wider. ‘Go on then, ignore me. Close your eyes.’

I grit my teeth and force myself to look away from him, back to my feet. I pluck another piece of glass from the bottom of my feet.

I pull a piece out, and blood pools. I wipe it off. I pull another piece, and a hand grabs my shoulder. I flinch away but more hands wrap around me, pulling me onto the bed. Martin is now standing over me, staring down like a trapper examining a mouse caught in a snare.

‘Come on,’ he laughs, ‘you know you want to.’

My eyes slowly travel down from his face to his outstretched palm, cradling a piece of the glass. A large shard, glistening with my blood. I don’t want to know what he means, but I do. I pull myself upright in my bed, my hands shaking violently.

“I can’t.”

‘Oh, come on Malcolm, you were just thinking it yourself.’

“But… Sunshine…” I trail off, clenching and unclenching my hands.

‘You know you want to,’ he sings cheerfully. ‘Come on, do it for dear old dad.’

A tear trickles down my cheek. I didn’t know I was crying. I rub my hand quickly across my face, smearing it away onto my sleeve. No one would me. If they cried at first, they would get over it. After all, I’m a burden. I weighed Gil down, when he took me in as a child, and again when I got fired from the FBI… I weigh the team down. I know I make them all uncomfortable with my jokes. I know the other officers at the precinct are uncomfortable with a serial killer’s son consulting. They’ll be happy.

Somewhere in my thoughts, I reached out and took the piece of glass with trembling hands. I gaze at it and turn it over. It’s sharp enough at the tip that it would be easy. Just two quick slashes, one over each wrist, and it would all be over. The voices, the pain, everything. I would never hurt anyone ever again. I would never hurt Gil. I would never be a bad son again. I choke on a sob and clench my hand over the piece of glass. I could sleep.

Tears streak down my cheeks, and blood trails from my fist, soaking the sheets around my feet. I'm really doing this.

‘Go on, Malcolm, you can do it,’ my father urges.

I slowly unbutton the cuffs of my white sleeves, and roll them up, up, above my elbow. I trace a path slowly with the glass shard from my wrist to my elbow. I don’t break the skin, I just leave a faint scratch, a thin mark like a fingernail that left itself as a thin ghosty white line. Easy. This time when I start, I dig the glass into the very base of my palm, drawing blood. I press hard and drag the glass up to my wrist, slowly, deliberately, until it reached my elbow. Blood pools, gushing out of my arm faster than I thought it would, and draining the energy from my arm. It is a sharp pain at first, but as I finish the line, the pain dulls, blood pulsing to to the cut as well as endorphins that drown out the pain and reduce it to a dull pain. Better do the other one quickly. I don’t do a trail run this time, I just draw the glass up my fore-arm. There. I drop the glass onto my sheets and look down at my wrists. The second line isn’t straight.

For some reason I find myself laughing at I look down at the blood leaking out of the ragged line on my left arm. I couldn’t even do that right. I laugh and stop as a salty tear drips off my lips into my mouth. I’m still crying. I laugh even more. I should tell someone. I should tell someone that I’m such a fuckup that I couldn’t even kill myself right. Gil. Gil would think that’s funny. I reach for the phone in my pocket, my arm sliding in my sheets, slippery from blood. Something pulls at my stomach, telling me to stop, but I can’t remember what, so I dial Gil’s number.

He won’t mind. He’ll get the joke.

I smile faintly, comforted by the thought, and the world fades away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, did you like it?
> 
> This chapter is VERY whumpy. Probably the climax; there will still be minor angst in the last chapter(s) but it will be mostly comfort (oh god I've never written comfort before idk how it's going to be). If you have thoughts on any of the content just comment!
> 
> I wrote that he didn't know why he was laughing when he finished slitting his wrists. When you cut yourself/hurt yourself/get hurt, your body releases endorphins to drown out the pain. The endorphins kill the physical pain, but also the mental/emotional pain (why so many people use cutting or other forms of self-harm as a coping mechanism, and why people can get addicted to self harming. They're addicted to the endorphin release. It's kind of like getting high, or drunk, and things that are not at all funny seem very funny.  
> If you are having thoughts like Malcolm is in this chapter, or if you're self harming, reach out for help. There are always people willing to help, be it a friend, an parent, a teacher, or a therapist/online counselor/hotline operator.  
> !!! Text CONNECT to 741741 (self-harm hotline) or call 1-800-273-8255 (suicide hotline) !!!
> 
> If you want to ask questions, you can ask them below or on tumblr at emomulberrygirl. If you liked the fic or have constructive criticism, please comment!
> 
> Reads make me smile, Kudos make me jump up and down and Comments knock me to the ground.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are mentions/discussions of suicide in this chapter, but it's not described. However, if it could be triggering for you, just know it's going to be here and you might want to avoid it.
> 
> Also I just realized that in the first chapter I had JT say if he ever met the right girl he might want to settle down and have kids? But he's married? That wasn't me trying to hint at any ship or anything I just genuinely forgot he had a wife lol. Sorry. So now, on with the story.

When Gil heard the phone ring, his head jerked up. He had been sitting at his kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee. He usually didn’t drink caffeine that late at night, but this night was an exception. He had been drinking, and then he somehow started arguing with Bright, and he scared him off before he could apologize.

After the argument, and Bright running out on the group in a panic, all Gil wanted to do was go out and apologize to him, calm him down and tell him that he didn’t regret taking care of him- of course he didn’t regret taking care of him. How could he? Bright had saved his life, so he repaid the kid by watching over him, and soon it became about much more than duty. Sure, he’d always wanted kids with Jackie, but Gil knew that Malcolm was as close to a son as he would ever get, and he was ok with that. He loved Malcolm.

He groaned, pinching between his eyes and trying to squeeze the alcohol and regrets forcefully out of his head. God, Malcolm had tried to give him a way out of his obvious mistake and his stupid, clumsy tongue had fumbled around for an appropriate response and found ‘messed up person’. Gil cursed his tongue. And then he had to bring up Martin Whitly. Of course, he had to bring up Martin Whitly. And Malcolm had walked away, his hands shaking so hard Gil was surprised he could button his suit jacket, let alone drive himself home. He must have got a cab.

Gil’s first instinct had been to go after him, run after him and grab him and tell him that, of course he loved him, and that what he said was just the result of too much stress and alcohol and not enough sleep, not based in any reality, but Dani and JT had exchanged glances and taken off instead, so Gil just stayed in his seat. Dani came back shortly after, saying that JT was talking to Malcolm outside.

“I didn’t mean it,” he had practically whispered.

Dani’s face had softened, and she reached out and squeezed Gil’s hands. “He knows that. He’ll be fine.”

And so they had sat there in silence, and finished their drinks, and then Dani drove them both home, because she was still sober. She dropped him off at his apartment and watched him as he ascended the steps to his house, unlocked the door, and went inside.

“He’ll be fine,” she repeated out loud to herself in the car.

When Gil got inside, half of him wanted to drink until he forgot the whole conversation, but the more rational part of him knew he should sober up. He remembered the countless times Malcolm had gotten into a fight, with his mom, or Ainsley, or someone at school, and how Gil had gotten a call from Malcolm at 2 the next morning, his teeth chattering as he explained that he had been upset and had started walking, and he didn’t know where he was, and he didn’t have coat. Maybe Malcolm wouldn’t call Gil because it was Gil that he got into the fight with, but if he did call, needing a ride, Gil wanted to be right next to the phone so he could show Malcolm that he would still do anything for him.

So, when two and a half hours later, Gil’s phone started buzzing, the name “Bright” popping up on the screen, Gil grabbed the phone immediately, pressing it to his ear. But the silence on the other end, that was something new. Complete silence.

Gil waited, then prompted, “Hello?”.

His hello was met with silence.

“Malcolm?”

More disturbing than the silence, Gil decided at once, was the soft moan followed by a muted gurgling that emitted from the phone this time.

“Bright?! Kid? Are you there?” Gil pressed, anxiety coloring his words a static-y red.

Nothing.

“Kid, can you hear me?” Gil’s voice rose.

“Gil?” Malcolm’s voice was far too weak.

Fear blossomed in Gil’s chest. What could have happened to make him sound like that?

“Gil, is that you?”.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Gil responded, “Are you-

Malcolm interjected, “Oh, thank God. Listen-

Malcolm broke off giggling breathlessly, and then continued, “I had to call you because, because I didn’t do it right.”

Malcolm dissolved into laughs again, but Gil heard that terrifying choking again as Malcolm struggled for the breath to laugh, and the vice in his chest tightened. “Bright, what happened? You didn’t do what right?”

“I didn’t to it right!” Malcolm explained, “The one thing I had to do, and I screwed it up!”

“What did you screw up? Talk to me.”

“The lines are uneven, Gil, they’re,” he cut off laughing, “The one on my right arm is so crooked.”

The line on his right arm? Fear lanced through Gil, and he remembered Malcolm’s early teen years, when they truly thought they were going to lose him to what his father had done. When Malcolm was cutting his wrists, just to see himself bleed out. Gil had caught him once, tracing thin horizontal lines across his wrist on his bed. When Gil had him cleaned up, Malcolm had whispered that he had to feel what the Surgeon’s victims felt when they died, that he deserved to feel what they had felt. Gil had convinced Jessica to go to suicide prevention trainings and add another drug to his daily dose, and they eventually rode out that turbulent period of Malcolm’s life.

But even when all of that was happening, there was never a moment where Malcolm wasn’t in control. This Malcolm on the phone sounded unhinged. Gil had contributing it to alcohol and exhaustion, but maybe it was blood loss. Gil jerked to his feet, fingers shaking like Malcolm’s so often did as he grabbed his car keys and flung himself out the door.

“The lines? Did you hurt yourself? Where are you?”

Malcolm hesitated, then responded, quieter than he had been speaking, “I’m at my apartment, I- Gil, I thought you would think it was funny. I- I thought… please don’t be mad at me."

Funny? Why the hell would Gil think it was funny? Gil’s stomach turned at what Malcolm must be thinking of him right now. He tried to school the worry and anxiety out of his voice, and project only calm. “I’m not mad, I just need to know to know how bad it is.”

“It- the sheets are all slippery, Gil. They’re like mud, or ice. I’m so cold,” Malcolm’s voice was slipping lower and lower, and Gil turned his phone onto speaker as he started his car- he needed to be able to keep hearing him.

“Ok,” Cold is bad. Shit. Gil placed the phone on his dash and backed quickly out of his driveway. “Ok, can you stay awake for me, until I get there?”

“Where, Gil?” Malcolm’s voice was so childlike, a faint query.

“I’m coming to you kid,” Gil choked.

Malcolm mumbled something.

“What?”

Silence.

“Malcolm!”

“The ceiling is so… soft,” Malcolm murmured.

“Dammit, Malcolm stay with me! You have to focus on my voice, don’t fall asleep!” Gil’s voice broke. It wasn’t that far to Malcolm’s apartment. He could make it.

He could make it.

Dammit, he better make it. Gil gripped the wheel tighter and pressed his foot down on the gas, switching the sirens on. “Malcolm, you have to keep talking, so I know you’re ok. Can you do that for me?”.

Malcolm groaned softly, and then said, “Yeah. I can do that. What do I say?”

“Anything, kid. Tell me about anything.”

Gil fumbled on his phone with one hand, sending a text to Dani to send an ambulance to Malcolm’s place, while steering with the other hand. He normally wouldn’t text and drive, but hell if this wasn’t worth it. He knew she was probably hovering near her phone, anxiously pacing her apartment waiting for something to happen just like he had been. She would call an ambulance, do what he couldn’t do because he had to stay on the line with Malcolm. Gil shivered at the thought of what would happen if he hung up now. He shook off the fear- irrelevant now- and realized that Malcolm hadn’t responded yet.

“Malcolm?” He prompted.

“Yeah. Oh!- talking. Right.” Malcolm paused, and then laughed again, softer this time, not the manic giggles that had racked him when he started the call. “He was here earlier. I think he left when I finally… you know. Or maybe he left when I called you. He hates you.”

“He?” Gil asked, even though he had a sinking feeling that he knew who Malcolm was talking about.

“My dad.”

Gil flinched. Malcolm never called Martin that. Sometimes when Malcolm was little, there were nights that his screaming got too much for Jessica and she drove him to Gil in tears, begging him to take Malcolm for a couple of days, just so she and Ainsley could sleep. Malcolm would snuggle between Gil and Jackie in their bed, and Gil would read to him until he was calm enough to have a chance at getting to sleep. He would walk a sleepy Malcolm across the tiny hallway between the master bedroom and the little bedroom that had been Gil’s home study until Malcolm began to need a place to sleep away from home, and they had pulled out the desk and replaced it with a bed. Malcolm would climb into the bed, Gil would tuck him in, and when he turned out the light, Malcolm would call him dad.

It melted Gil’s heart the first time he said it- “goodnight, dad”- and after pausing, a lump suddenly catching his breath in his throat, Gil had walked back to his bed and held Jackie, crying because Malcolm called him his dad. And so, sometimes after then when he was really exhausted, Malcolm would call him dad. But never Martin. Martin Whitley was always ‘my father’ or ‘Dr. Whitley.’

“You saw him?” Gil forced himself to keep engaging Malcolm. He was nearly there.

Malcolm didn’t respond, but he hummed a yes.

“Come on, tell me something more.” Two blocks away.

Malcolm just groaned again.

“Malcolm?”

There was no response, and Gil cursed, as he turned the corner onto Malcolm’s street. He pressed the gas harder, motor revving as he pulled onto the curb outside of Malcolm’s apartment. He killed the engine and jumped out of the car, grabbing his phone, still on speaker, and running to the door. He fumbled in his pocket for the key he kept on him at all times to his apartment.

His hands shook as he tried to fit the key, and he could have laughed at the role reversal if not for the circumstances. He finally fit the key, and forced the door open, sprinting up the steps, shouting out into the empty apartment, “Bright?”.

He turned to face the bed and all of the blood drained from his face. All of his emergency training fell out the window at the sight of his kid, his kid lying on the bed, blood pluming out onto the sheets like a flower around him. The only thing he could do was stand there, stalk still as a breath forced itself out from between his lips, a faint whisper.

“Oh God, Malcolm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off- I'm sorry this took so long to write and post! It was not my intention to wait an entire month, I just got caught up in school, and needed to deal with my own mental health stuff too. By some Christmas miracle, I started writing again, so I guess here's a Christmas present, a day late.This chapter is perhaps more whumpy than I thought it was going to be? You're going to have to wait again for any comfort... sorrynotsorry i love whump too much and am shit at writing comfort.
> 
> Like before, if you are having thoughts like Malcolm is in this chapter, or if you're self harming, reach out for help. There are always people willing to help, be it a friend, an parent, a teacher, or a therapist/online counselor/hotline operator. If you find yourself in a position like Gil's in this chapter, know that the best thing you can do it listen to your friend, and call for help. Crisis hotlines are available to help you even it isn't you who is in crisis.
> 
> !!! Text CONNECT to 741741 (self-harm hotline) or call 1-800-273-8255 (suicide hotline) !!!
> 
> If you want to ask questions, you can ask them below or on tumblr at emomulberrygirl. If you liked the fic or have constructive criticism, please comment!
> 
> Reads make me smile, Kudos make me jump up and down and Comments knock me to the ground.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mentions of suicide, but nothing graphic.

The waiting room was eerily quiet. There were a few people sitting in the straight white chairs dispersed through the room, but no one spoke. Gil was one of those people. He sat, his bouncing quickly on the floor as he stared at the floor, his eyes dull and unmoving with shock.

He had arrived at Malcolm’s apartment fifteen minutes ago to find Malcolm splayed out on his bed, wrists slit and blood soaking the sheets around him. It seemed like seconds and centuries had passed since then; he could still feel Malcolm’s blood pulsing thick and hot against his fingers as he pressed handfuls of blankets against his wrists, he could feel the paramedics pulling him off of the bed when they arrived, he could hear the heart rate monitor flat-line in the ambulance, and the paramedics scramble to check his IV line and start compressions, which they continued until his heart finally caught on to the rhythm and started beating again.

The sound of his phone ringing brought Gil out of the haze that he had been sitting in since he arrived in the ER and was forced to stay in the waiting room by one of the nurses. He blinked and reached numbly into his pocket. ‘Dani’ his screen read. Dani! He had forgotten to call her when he arrived; everything but Malcom had faded to the back of his mind. She was probably terrified. He pressed accept and raised the phone to his ear.

“Gil, thank god,” Dani’s voice was tense with anxiety. “Do you have any idea how many times I texted you? Called you? And you didn’t respond so I went to Malcolm’s place and- oh god, please tell me he’s ok.”

“He’s…” Gil’s throat closed and the coughed, clearing his throat before finishing, his voice still strangled, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? I get to his apartment and the door is just open. I go upstairs, and his bed is soaked, and I mean soaked with blood, and there’s something glass shattered on the floor,” her voice rose the more she talked, mirroring the fear that Gil felt, “Gil, tell me what happened.”

“I’m in the ER. Malcolm tried to- he tried to kill himself. They haven’t told me anything yet.”

“What?” Dani cried, and added “I’m coming right now.” She hung up.

Gil stared at his phone and fought back the burning in his eyes. There were a few more people he was going to have to call, and he couldn’t be crying when he told them what happened. They would need him to be stoic. His fingers moved like stones as he dialed a familiar number, the digits making mechanical beeps that were markedly incongruous with the dull quiet of the waiting room. The call was picked up on the second ring.

“Gil! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Gil flinched at the cheeriness of Jessica’s voice. She sounded happy, genuinely so, not some adorned front intended to dissuade anyone tempted to pity her. Happiness that he was about to strip away. “Gil? Are you there?”

He jolted back to reality as she spoke again. He cleared his throat and fumbled for the words, his tongue refusing to move as his brain supplied all the wrong words.

Your son tried to hill himself. I’m at the emergency room awaiting any news, but no one has come out to tell me anything so he could be dead right now for all I know. You should probably come done as soon as you can. He forced himself to spit out two words-

“It’s Malcolm.”

Her voice lost its bubbly overtone as she sighed, “What has he done this time?” Jessica’s voice grew quiet, like she was holding the phone away, and she laughed, “Ainsley, your brother can’t stay out of trouble for the world.”

Gil swallowed, “He’s- he’s hurt.”

“Are you at the station? Dear, it’s common enough, why are you calling me?” a hint of fear crept into her voice even as she seemed to brush off his statement.

“We’re not at the station.”

“Gil?”

“We’re at the ER. Jess-

The phone disconnected before he could even finish her name.

-

Gil couldn’t make himself move. He was still sitting there, slumped in his seat, as Dani arrived with JT trailing behind her- ‘I called him when you texted for the ambulance, I didn’t know what happened’- and then Jessica with Ainsley. Their questions were like weights, thrown down around his shoulders one after the other, and he barely managed to push out answers and remain coherent.

‘Is he ok? What happened?’ followed by ‘Why would he do that?’

Me. Because of me. It’s my fault. His words caught in his throat as the mantra repeated in his mind, pounding through him and forcing his chest to clench with guilt. Eventually he heard Dani reply softly for him.

“I don’t think there was any one thing. We were all under a lot of stress with this last job, and his mental health has never been the steadiest. I think things just got to be too much.”

Jessica whispered something unintelligible and then turned, pulling Ainsley in close to her, an uncharacteristic display of affection that tipped Ainsley over the edge. She bit her lip and closed her eyes against her tears, tucking her head gently into her mother’s shoulder.

Gil looked away, unable to watch as the thought- this is your fault- pulsed his mind. Dani sunk into the chair next to him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Hey. It’s not your fault.”

He turned his head slowly towards her, tears fighting to fall on his cheeks, “But what I said- if I hadn’t said that he-

“Whenever someone does something like this, it isn’t because of one thing. They feel like it’s their only way out, their only way forward. This is not your fault.”

She stared into his eyes, and he slowly, shakily, nodded his head.

And then the doors to the ER swung open again. And a doctor entered the room.

“Family of Malcolm Bright?”

A jolt of adrenaline replaced the deadening greyness that had been filling Gil, and he came abruptly to his feet. Jessica and Ainsley dropped their arms, turning to face the doctor, and he heard Dani and JT rise behind him. The doctor walked over to them his face unreadable. Gil tried to steal himself for what the doctor was going to say. 

He didn’t make it. We couldn’t save him. I’m so sorry.

But as each phrase ran though his head, he imagined life after, and all he could see was horror. Malcolm couldn’t be- his kid couldn’t be dead.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Are you the mother?” he addressed Jessica.

She nodded. “Is he ok?”

“Your son lacerated the ulnar arteries on both of his wrists. Things were touch and go for a while in surgery, but we managed to stitch him up, and we believe that with rest and light hand and wrist exercises, he will fully physically recover.”

“Oh my god,” Jessica’s voice broke and she covered her mouth as she sobbed with relief. “Thank god.”

Ainsley wrapped an arm around her mother and pulled her into a side-hug, her face showing just as much relief. Dani exhaled a slow, shuddering breath, and Gil released how terrified she was as well, even though she had just been helping him.

“However,” The doctor added, “We do need to hold him for 72 hours under suicide watch for his own safety, and he will have to pass a psychiatric evaluation to be released.”

The group fell silent for a moment, and then Ainsley looked up.

“Can we see him now?”.

“Yes, but he lost a lot of blood. He’ll be pretty groggy and out of it- I recommend only two at a time, and short visits. I don’t want to strain him right now.” He paused. “Mrs. Bright, I assume you would like to go first…”

It took Jessica only a second to realize his mistake, and then she jerked, “Oh, yes. But it’s Mrs. Whitley. Ainsley, you’ll come with me?”

Mrs. Bright. How different it all would have been if she had changed her name, if they had left the city. So many people had suggested it after Martin Whitley had been arrested, but Jessica refused. To leave after he got arrested would be like fleeing, she had said. It would be admitting that what he had one was something they could not recover from, that he had truly beaten them, and she couldn’t do that. So she stayed. And if that was what she needed to do to cope with what had happened, who was Gil to say any different? So he said nothing, never urged her to leave the city, or change her name.

And when Malcolm had come to him, hands trembling and head bent, saying that he just had to get away from it all, Gil had hugged him and told him everything would be alright. He helped Malcolm change his last name, and he listed himself as a reference when Malcolm applied to the FBI academy. People cope in different ways, and he knew that. If only Malcolm had come to him this time, they could have talked. They could have talked, and Malcolm would understand, and none of this would have happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha and I thought the last one took a long time lol. Oops. Sorry this took over a month to write and post. The next one should be faster, although maybe not. I'm really sorry about how long it takes me to write these chapters, and I hope you liked it enough for it to be worth the super long wait :(
> 
> Um. So no comfort again this chapter? I PROMISE there will be some next chapter. This chapter was from Gil's pov and Malcolm's not really in it, but I promise he'll be back for the next (last) one. Also up next chapter: some JT guilt/good!JT bc I actually like his character I just needed him to be mean in the beginning of the fic for plot reasons.
> 
> If you want to ask questions, you can ask them below or on tumblr at emomulberrygirl. If you liked the fic or have constructive criticism, please comment!
> 
> Reads make me smile, Kudos make me jump up and down and Comments knock me to the ground.


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